


Fingers Like Switches

by LawrenceKinden



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bare - Freeform, Dark, Scarecrow - Freeform, Spanking, Storm - Freeform, Switching, nude, soaking, spank, switch - Freeform, wet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrenceKinden/pseuds/LawrenceKinden
Summary: They were warned not to hassle the scarecrow. [Story Depicts Spanking]





	Fingers Like Switches

The scarecrow stood in the center of the cornfield, ten feet tall, dressed in faded grey, heavily patched clothes, with a sackcloth face and black button eyes. He wasn't the only scarecrow in the fields of Uncle MacGregor's farm, but he was the tallest, the oldest, and the only one with birch bundles protruding from his sleeves like spindly, many-fingered hands. He stood upon his perch, held to his ancient post with dusty rope.

Sydney, Luna, and me stood at his base, surrounded by cornstalks taller than us, staring up at him, from his worn leather boots to his peaked hat, his dark grey overalls to his grey and black flannel, his moth-eaten coat to his peaked, dusty hat.

"I don't think he's so scary," Luna said. Sydney's little sister, Luna had more guts than sense. She was about my size, with dark hair and pale skin and shining blue eyes.

Sydney shrugged. "He's just a scarecrow, after all." She was taller than me, though we were of an age. She had soft, blonde hair, sun-tanned skin, and the same shining blue eyes as her sister.

I shook my head at my cousins' utter lack of understanding. They were from the city over east, they didn't understand how things out here in the boonies bumped in the dark, how stories had a way of taking on truth, how when mommies and aunties warned little girls not to wander into the cornfield, not to hassle their Uncle MacGregor's scarecrows, they meant it.

Uncle MacGregor was a mean old man, the uncle of my mom and Aunt Bertie, Sydney and Luna's mom. So, technically, he was our great uncle, but everyone, even those not in the family, called him Uncle MacGregor. He was well known for being short-tempered, tight-fisted, and the best farmer in the county. I avoided him whenever I could.

"Why does he have sticks for hands?" Luna asked.

"Those are birch switches," I explained.

"Switches? Like when kids used to get spanked?"

I nodded. The idea made me shiver. We'd never been spanked, but it was common knowledge that spanking happened all the time when our parents had been kids. Mom even told me about one time Uncle MacGregor had spanked her bare butt with a switch for accidently trampling a tomato patch.

Sydney laughed, breaking my chill of fear. "Why? So the scarecrow can spank the crows?"

I giggled despite myself. Sydney and Luna laughed. Soon we were all giggling like madchilldren, tears streaming down our faces, sides aching with it.

A wind picked up on the far side of the cornfield. I could hear the rustle of the leaves, like whispers in the night. The air felt heavy suddenly, and my ears popped. My laughter died and I hunched my shoulders. Sydney and Luna didn't hear it, didn't feel it, until it was upon us, a sudden, blustery wind that bent the cornstalks and kicked up dust, sending our hair and clothes to snapping harshly. I crouched, one hand covering my eyes, the other holding my skirt down. One of my cousins, or maybe both, screamed.

It was over in moments.

I shook my hair back and stood up gingerly, blinking dust from my eyes. I sniffled and rubbed my nose. Sydney stood as well, brushing back her blonde hair and smoothing her skirt. Luna looked around at us before she, too, stood, fixing what the wind had wrought.

"What was that?" Sydney said.

I looked to the west, to the far side of the cornfield. Even with the cornstalks obscuring the horizon, I could see the storm smudging the sky. "We should get back to the house," I said, pointing.

Sydney and Luna nodded and hurried down the narrow path from the center scarecrow to Uncle MacGregor's farmhouse. I followed, but was startled by a faint creak, like a rope stretched too far. I looked over my shoulder. The scarecrow had come loose on one side, his left shoulder no longer held to his post by a rope. He leaned heavily to his right, as though turning to follow our exit. His black button eyes stared at me.

I yelped and hurried after my cousins who were already well down the path.

The storm came hard and fast, and we were soaked through before we'd cleared the cornfield. We broke through to the well-kept field serving as Uncle MacGregor's front yard. Aunt Bertie stood on the front porch, looking for us no doubt. She waved when she saw us. We pelted through the rain until we got to the porch, then stood there panting and dripping. Lightning flashed somewhere behind us. I jumped. Thunder grumbled gently along.

"You three all right?" Aunt Bertie asked.

"Yeah, mom," Sydney said.

I swallowed hard, but nodded.

"Do you see them, Bertie?" My mom called, coming to the door.

"They're here, Joy. A bit damp but no worse for it."

Mom opened the door. "Get in here, you three, before you catch cold."

"Ought to whip the three of them for foolishness." Uncle MacGregor's voice creaked from the shadows at the far end of the porch. His words rooted my feet to the floorboards, fear trickling up the backs of my thighs to tingle uncomfortably at the centers of my nates. My shoulders hunched as I turned to seek him, a hunched, cranky shadow among shadows.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face, casting the furrows of his age into sharp relief.

"We don't do that, Uncle MacGregor," Aunt Bertie said.

Uncle MacGregor grunted. He shuffled from the shadows, past us, into the house.

"What's his problem?" mom said after Uncle MacGregor had grumbled his way past.

"He still thinks the spanking ban will be the downfall of civilization."

We let our moms hustle us inside and up to the third floor where our guest room was. The third floor was creaky and dusty and little used. There was only the one bedroom and an attached bathroom. The rain on the roof was loudest on the third floor. Usually rain on the roof was soothing to me, but soaking wet and startled by the storm's sudden arrival, I could only shiver.

Mom and Aunt Bertie brought us a couple of extra towels and left the three of us to change out of our sodden clothes. Sydney and Luna and me had known each other our whole lives, but I was still shy about changing in front of them, especially now I was shifting out of childhood. They were both so pretty, and I was just... plain.

I pulled my dress over my head and the rainwater stuck it to my back so I had to tug hard. It dropped from my hands to the floor with a splat. I had to roll my sodden socks down my legs to get them off my feet, and my panties were so soaked it was like trying to peel two pieces of tape apart. Sydney and Luna chatted animated about the excitement of the storm as they undressed, but I felt sober.

Naked and chilled, I pulled on a long t-shirt and a favorite pair of sweat pants, worn in the knees. Sydney and Luna likewise changed into pajamas. Then, hair still damp but no longer shivering, we trooped downstairs for dinner in the large, well-lit dining room around the big table, a crackling fire in the fireplace at one end a merry counterpoint to the oppressive storm.

Despite Uncle MacGregor glowering at everyone, dinner was a joyous affair. All three of my mom's sisters and their families had joined us for spring break at Uncle MacGregor's house. There was over a dozen of us cousins. Aside from Sydney, Luna, and me, there was Jack, getting ready to go to college; Mike and Aaron, the twins; Brian and Sam and Jeremy who were Aunt Mo's boys; and a whole bevy of toddlers and babies I couldn't keep straight. It was all a happy sort of chaos and it drove the incident in the cornfield out of my head. Sydney, Luna, and I were the only girls (other than a few of the babies), which is why we got the third floor room to ourselves.

After dinner, the family oozed through the house. Some of the babies were fussy and needed tented to. Some of the boys were rowdy and tore through the house. Some of the dads enjoyed a pint and a pipe and shared stories around the great stone fireplace in the living room. I found myself drawn back out to the porch. The storm had settled from that first great gust into a steady pounding grumble, heavy rain under sullen thunder.

I stood at the porch edge, rain falling a nose-length from my face, and stared into the darkness where I knew the scarecrow was. With the light and warmth of the house at my back, only a few lengths of yard was illuminated. The cornfield beyond was shrouded in rain and night. Even so, I imagined I could see him, bent awkwardly over the cornstalks, looking at me looking at him.

"You chits weren't hassling my scarecrows, were you, child?"

I started and bit my tongue when Uncle MacGregor's voice snapped from the darkness. My shoulders ached with a flood of tingles.

"Your mama should have spanked you," he growled. "Now you'll regret she didn't."

I kept my gaze on him as he shuffled to the door, not wanting him to get close to me.

An hour later lay on the creaky bed in the small room, staring into the darkness, listening to the easy breathing of my cousins in their sleep. I wondered what he'd meant by that. Was he just grousing about the state of the world and young people with no discipline, or perhaps he'd been threatening me, planning to spank me himself. I desperately tried not to consider the third option—that it'd been a warning.

Wind still brushed the house, rain spattered the windows, thunder grumbled in the distance like a cranky old man.

I turned on to my side to face the wall, rocking side to side until the blanket was tucked all around men. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the dusty house and tried to calm my thoughts, put them away one at a time like books on a shelf so they wouldn't distract me from falling asleep. I closed out the sound of the wind, the rain, the thunder, my cousins' breathing, my own heart thumping, until my mind was silent.

swish-bump, swish-bump, swish-bump...

I tried to ignore the new sound.

...swish-bump...

But it intruded upon my silence.

...swish-bump...

It wasn't a sound I recognized.

...swish-bump...

And it was growing steadily closer.

...swish-bump...

I sat up all at once, tossing aside the covers and staring at the bedroom door though I couldn't see it in the darkness. I put my back hard to the wall as though I might push through it and escape. I tried to cry out, to warn my cousins, to wake the house, to banish whatever approached, but my chest was heavy and my breath stolen and my scream soundless.

...swish-bump...

The house creaked and my ears popped as pressure settled about. I couldn't look to the horizon, but I knew another squall approached.

...swish-bump...

Lightning lit the room just outside the window and the crash of thunder jolted my heart and I must have screamed but I couldn't hear it over the cracking growl shaking the house. In that moment of brilliant illumination, I saw every detail of the room. I saw Sunny and Luna snuggled close in bed, expressions peaceful in spite of the sudden storm. I saw the wood panels of the wall, every swirl and grain. I saw the door, firmly closed, shiny brass handle slowly turning.

I bit my tongue and tasted copper.

The room went black again.

I tried to force myself to think. What should I do? What could I do? Who was on the other side of the doorway? Had I really seen what I thought I had?

Lightning lit the room again, fainter this time, from further away, just as the wind struck us, shaking the house from peak to cellar, rattling the windows and pelting us with rain.

I scrambled to my feet, breathless, witless, as I saw him in that second, brief lightning. The scarecrow. His scuffed and battered boots, frayed clothes, sackcloth face and shiny button eyes. He lurched toward me, one foot dragging.

It was dark again.

The bed screeched as I leapt from it. I thump-tumbled to the floor, scrambling for purchase. I sprinted for the doorway and hit it so hard I bounced off. Head swimming, I pushed to my knees and groped in the darkness for the handle. After an agonizing eternity of moments, my hands found the cool, smooth surface. I tried to twist I, but the sweat of my palms slipped. I tried again and heard the bolt slide. Then something grabbed me around the ankle and lifted me into the air. I could feel the gnarled knots of the branches making up the scarecrow's hand curl tightly around my ankle.

Lifted as I was, my nightdress slipped down my down my body, catching for a moment at my hips, then dropping to my armpits. My frantic squirming slipped it over my head and down my arms to fall with a rustle like a load of bricks. He lifted me higher and I flailed, striking out with fists, with my one free foot, trying to strike it, to dislodge myself. I hit only air.

Lightning lit the room in slow motion.

His face was only inches from mine—his soulless button eyes glaring at me, his featureless sackcloth face grimacing at me. He moved to hold me at arm's length, turning me so that my backside was positioned to be easily struck by his other, birch bundle hand. I squirmed and twisted but was caught fast.

A dozen wooden fingers struck me at once, from the middle of my back to just above my knees.

I remembered once, several years ago when I'd been five, visiting my aunt's house. Sunny and Luna's mom. We'd been out back, playing in the pool, and I'd gotten out for a while, wandering through the backyard in my one-piece and bare feet, dripping poolwater on the grass. Quite suddenly, ants swarmed my feet, their needle-sharp legs climbing to my knees, biting all the while. In a panic, I'd leapt in the pool. Even so, the burning sting had lingered for days.

That's what the first blow reminded me of, an encompassing, pervading sting I couldn't escape. Lines of fire erupting on my bare skin. Pain crystalizing my mind, convincing me that this was all impossible, that I must be dreaming, that if I could only scream loud enough, I'd wake myself. I took a deep breath, prepared to shriek, when he struck me again and I gasped instead. I coughed and gagged and couldn't breathe. Blood rushed to my head as I swayed in his grip. He struck me again and a sob escaped me, spat from my throat in a spasm. Even in the dark, my vision clouded from being unable to breathe.

My chest suddenly exploded with breath, sweet and burning. It was a relief, but short-lived, as he hit me again. A dozen lines of fire, a dozen streaks of pain, crisscrossing the already throbbing madness pounding rhythmically, throwing off my heartbeat and shattering whatever sense of what existed. The only thing I knew, the only thing I could understand, was the whistle-shriek pain of my switching at the hand of the scarecrow.

I sobbed.

Great, wracking, throat-shredding wails of pain and fear and resignation. I didn't even recognize my own voice as the sobs ripped from me, broken and pleading. He struck me again and my sobs turned high and unbridled, piteous and sharp. If I could have formed words, if I could have formed thoughts I'd have apologized for whatever it was I'd done, for whatever had called this burning upon my back.

He struck me again and again and again.

Another crack of thunder filled the room and I bolted upright in bed, clutching the blankets to my naked chest, scanning the darkness for anything. I heard twin gasps echo my own and knew my cousins had woken as well. It'd been nothing, my relieved mind told me. It'd been bluster and raindrops, thunder and fear, dreamstuff and... my heart thudded in my throat and my hears and my back and my hips and my thighs. The ghost of the most thorough switching I'd never received.

Tentatively I ran one hand from my lower back to my bottom and felt the raised weals, tender skin, reigniting the fire.


End file.
